


Do Not Put in the Icebox

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Age Play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bed-Wetting, Blood, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Sexual Age Play, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thumb-sucking, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the asset malfunctions on a mission, Rumlow and Rollins learn more than they ever wanted to know about Pierce's hobbies.</p><p>And then everyone has pancakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Put in the Icebox

**Author's Note:**

> "But Lauralot, I thought you were just going to do fluffy, healing sequels in this series from now on?"
> 
> Yeah, well, y'all can blame [ravenously and halfmoonsevenstars.](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/14747556) I did _intend_ for this to be a somewhat lighter entry, but even though nearly all of the abuse is summarized or alluded to rather than described, I think it still turned out pretty traumatic. Mind the tags and proceed with caution.

**Let stand in the kitchen in a cool place. Do not put in the icebox.**

—Mary A. Wilson, “Bread Griddle Cakes,” _Mrs. Wilson’s Cook Book_

  


Frost coats the stained glass window like corrective fluid spread over an image.

The asset had forgotten about corrective fluid until now, looking at the window. In the past he would see the Secretary and the technicians use it on papers. Now they type on computers and mistakes are excised before the papers print out. Perhaps one day they can use such methods on the asset and wipe his mind before he wakes from the ice. Perhaps they already have; it’s not as if the asset can remember.

He is not meant to be looking at the window, but there was a noise behind the asset and in turning his head to find the source, his eyes had fallen on the glass visible in the stairwell beneath them.

The three of them—Commander Rumlow, Agent Rollins, and the asset—are in the belfry of a church. They have removed the louver from one window to allow the asset to look out and aim his rifle. Rumlow and Rollins are playing cards; the shuffle of the deck produced the sound that made the asset turn his head. He turns back now, focusing through the scope of the rifle.

The church is full of statues and the scent of fragrant smoke, and is situated at one corner of an intersection. The other three corners house an apartment building, an office building, and a community center that feeds the destitute. His target, a philanthropist and aspiring politician, will be arriving at the center at five o’clock to prepare for a meal and a speech. At the same time, a church employee will come to the landing below them and ring the bell, though the evening’s service does not begin until six. The bell, combined with the silencer on the rifle, should mask the sound enough to confuse any bystanders as to where the shot came from, and should allow the asset and his handlers to slip away unnoticed.

It is the worst of the buildings to fire from, awkwardly angled, but the asset is capable of making the shot and the poor vantage point will direct suspicion away from them. Other HYDRA agents have opened windows and pulled back shades in the office and apartment complexes at just the right places to draw police and onlooker suspicion toward those buildings instead.

It is two minutes to five. 

There is a priest in the sanctuary, practicing the readings. His words are in Latin, his manner of speech odd and melodic. The asset finds it familiar, though he is a weapon and weapons are without religion. He can almost remember kneeling, lips moving in prayer, and maybe a past mission had required that but for now he turns his attention back to the street. 

It is very cold. It is snowing. A winter storm, Rumlow had said, but the city streets are salted and warm from traffic, so the target should not be delayed. The asset can see his own breath in the air, hovering in front of his view through the scope. 

It is one minute to five and the target’s car is pulling up. Below them, the asset can hear footsteps: the bell ringer is moving into position. The target is exiting her vehicle. She holds a key ring in her hand and a white rabbit’s foot dangles from it.

The asset hears scraping glass in his mind and ignores it.

The bell rings. The target is not yet in position. Rumlow and Rollins have looked up from their cards, watching. In the sanctuary, the priest’s voice carries on.

A second toll. The target is bent over, locking her car, and the asset waits for a better shot to present itself. She begins moving on the third toll. He is ready to fire on the fourth, but there are words from below and he cannot help but hear them.

“— _amā itaque Dominum Deum tuum et_ —”

_Amā._

The asset is no longer in the belfry. He is sitting in a bath surrounded by soap bubbles and he is not an asset. He is a child, with one of his daddy’s hands laced with his and the other at the back of his head, and Daddy says _amā_ and the glass is splintering, grinding—

“ _Amō,_ ” he whispers and his whole body seizes, finger squeezing on the trigger.

 _Bang_ goes the gun and the bell follows but the noise is already in the air and the lady across the street falls down. For a second she is just lying on the icy pavement like she’s trying to make a snow angel but faced the wrong way, and then the blood starts from under her hair. It comes out in waves—her heart, the asset knows, must still be beating, pumping—and her hand with the key ring is by her head and the puddle is growing, staining the rabbit’s foot red.

He cannot move. 

There are people across the street screaming and gathering around the lady. There is a voice from the landing below them—“What the devil?”—and footsteps coming their way. He can hear the commander take out his gun. They can shoot the people in the church, the mission briefing said, if they have to. Acceptable collateral damage, it said. There is a bang of a pistol behind him, and something heavy and probably alive—for now—hits the floor. He doesn’t flinch. He can’t. 

“Soldier,” Rollins hisses from behind him. “Soldier, the window.” 

He’s supposed to put the louver in the window after firing. That way, no one can notice that it’s missing and work out where they are. The louver is propped up against the wall beside him; he can see it from the corner of his eye. He cannot move. 

There’s so much blood. 

Rollins curses and shoves past him. The view to the street is covered up but he can still only see the red-soaked rabbit’s foot. He isn’t breathing right, fast and shallow and shaky. Rollins is grabbing him, pulling at him, but he’s frozen in place and the agent has to pick him up to move him. He’s hanging over Rollins’s shoulder and his rifle is in Rollins’s other hand and then they’re off, moving very fast through the building. There’s a person dead on the stairs, more blood soaking into the carpet. 

Rumlow is in front of them. A third bang. He thinks that one is the priest. He should not be thinking, he should not be _here,_ but he is and his chest is tight and hurting and his arms are wrapping around Rollins’s waist because he’s cold and it’s so cold and Rollins goes still for a second, but then they’re moving again and the world is spinning as he’s shoved away from the warmth and into the back of a car. 

It isn’t until the car is moving and Rumlow and Rollins are staring back at him from the front seats—he is gasping and shivering and _so loud_ in the small space—that he starts to realize he has been very bad. 

*

He’s not supposed to be here. There are _rules._

It takes a long time to get to the safe house. It’s out of the city where the roads are snowy and slippery and Rumlow has to drive very slowly. It’s a pretty house. It belongs to HYDRA members who are away for what the briefing called recreational purposes, and it is warm. He can almost breathe normally once they’re inside but then Rumlow and Rollins make him sit at a table and they ask a lot of questions. Why did he fire at the wrong time? Why didn’t he cover the window like he was told? Why is his behavior erratic? 

He can’t answer. He can’t talk to them. That’s a rule. 

“You’re my perfect little secret, snowflake,” Daddy had told him. He had been in a hotel room, cuddling a soft blue bunny in his arms while his daddy brushed through his hair. He’d been shaking then too, but in a different way. It wasn’t that he was scared, it was that his body was too full of affection and contentment to be still. “Daddy doesn’t ever want to share you with anyone else, understand?” 

And he had understood, because he didn’t want to share Daddy either. 

This is the way it’s always been. He is the asset on missions and with the doctors at the facilities where he sleeps. He is only ever a child when he is alone with his daddy. Once on a mission, he’d hit his head and mixed things up. Then he had called Rumlow “Daddy” before he could remember the secret he’d promised to keep, and when they got back from that mission, the asset had to sit in the chair for a very long time until he learned his lesson. He’d never messed things up like that again.

Until now. 

Rumlow is beside him and demanding answers and he flinches, mindful of the punishment from the last time he’d talked to the commander. But Rollins is on his other side with the same questions and when he stays quiet, they get angry and take to slamming their hands on the table. Or grabbing his head and forcing him to meet their eyes. Or shaking him back and forth, hard. 

Crying is what bad boys do. It’s a manipulation. It isn’t the way the asset would behave. And it would make the eye paint run all down his face. But they keep asking for a long time and it is very, very hard not to cry. 

Just when he thinks he won’t be able to keep the tears from spilling out, Rumlow’s radio makes a sound. The connection is not good—the snow is falling very fast outside still, and maybe that’s causing the problem—so the grown-ups have to turn their focus away from him while they try to understand. They say that the mission is completed, but when they try to say more, their words won’t go through. 

“Good,” Rumlow says though he still sounds mad, pushing the radio away. “Gives us time to sort out this shit.” There’s a look in his eyes like he’s about to do something that will really hurt, but as he’s raising his hand Rollins reaches out and grabs his shoulder. 

“It’s late, Brock,” he says, rubbing his free hand over his face. “Leave it ‘til morning, all right? Hell, extraction’ll probably be delayed from the storm—we have time to sort this out.” Rollins is looking at him and although the agent’s voice is tired, his eyes say _or else._

There’s a long and scary moment when it doesn’t look like Rumlow will leave it. But then he shoves away from the table, standing. “Soldier.” 

He tries to look at Rumlow like the asset would, but it’s only a second before he’s looking back at the floor. 

“I don’t know what your malfunction is, but get it together before I come back in here. I’m not taking the heat for whatever’s fucked up in your head.” 

They leave him at the table in the dark. Rollins mutters for him to get some rest, but it’s not like being tucked into bed. It’s an order. Maybe a threat. He doesn’t like the dark and he wants to close his eyes but the asset is used to dark and cold places. And he’s supposed to be the asset now. 

_You have to come back_ , he tries to tell the asset, but there isn’t any answer. There wouldn’t be; he and the asset don’t _talk_. One goes away when the other comes out, like falling asleep. And he’s the one who should be sleeping now, but the asset won’t wake up. 

He closes his eyes tight. The kitchen isn’t as dark as the ice where the asset lives. _Wake up!_ He tries to think it in his daddy’s voice. For all the differences between them, the asset listens to Daddy too. _You have to be a grown-up now. It’s important._

There is just quiet and dark and the longer he sits with his eyes shut the clearer he can see the rabbit’s foot in all that blood inside his head. 

Rollins had said to rest. Maybe if he sleeps, he will wake up as the asset. He only ever wakes up as a child if he’s waking up in bed with Daddy. Even then, sometimes he’s the asset for a second or two before he remembers he shouldn’t be. But he isn’t sleepy; when he shuts his eyes there are awful pictures and he hears screaming.

He looks at the refrigerator. The asset lives in cold, small, dark spaces. But no, that’s a dumb idea. He wouldn’t fit in there. And kids suffocate in refrigerators. He thinks for a second he knew a girl whose little brother died that way, but he doesn’t know any other kids, so that makes no sense. 

Maybe he could sleep if he found Rumlow and slipped into his bed—he never sleeps alone as a child—but that’s an even stupider idea than the refrigerator. First of all, the commander doesn’t like him and would throw him out. Secondly, he can’t really remember but he’s pretty sure the asset doesn’t sleep with anybody else. Plus he’s not supposed to share himself with other people, and hugging onto Rumlow probably breaks that rule. And he keeps seeing that lady’s blood and he’d probably have nightmares and wet the bed. 

That happened once that he can remember. He doesn’t know anymore what the nightmare was, only that he’d woken up from it sniffling and cold under wet sheets. He hadn’t realized he’d been bad until Daddy woke up beside him. He’d been punished: he had to drink water until it really hurt, until he was fidgeting and whimpering and begging and then making a mess again. And Daddy had told him he was a very bad, disgusting, dirty little boy and had asked him how Daddy could possibly be expected to love such a filthy thing like him. Then Daddy had left him for hours to think about that before returning to give him a bath. 

He really doesn’t want to be punished like that again, even though he’d deserve it. 

The cabinets under the kitchen sink are cool and dark and a little smaller than the cryo-tank. They are also full of spray bottles and sponges and other cleaning supplies that he carefully, neatly puts on the floor before crawling in. It is a very small place and very, very dark with the doors closed.

If he were home, he would be in pajamas and under warm blankets and Daddy would hold him and brush his hair and tell him stories. He would have to show Daddy how much he loves him, show him with his mouth, and his tummy aches thinking about it but that would still be much better than being here. He can’t even tell himself a story; he doesn’t remember any to tell.

His thumb, cold and smooth metal, slips into his mouth and he sucks for a minute before he makes himself stop. The asset wouldn’t do a baby thing like that. And he can’t sleep—the chances of nightmares and accidents are just too big—so all he can do is wait for the asset. He wraps his arms around himself, still thinking of the rabbit’s foot and breath still shaky, and waits. And waits. 

*

“What the hell?” Rumlow demands in the morning, opening the cabinet. “What _is_ this, a fucking Christmas movie?”

The asset has not come back. He had decided a couple of hours ago that he would just pretend to be the asset when the agents woke up, but that sounded a lot easier before the commander was glaring down at him. 

“If it is,” Rollins says, “we should get him a glass of milk.”

Crying is bad. Crying is asking to be hit with a belt. But he’s tired and scared and sick from thinking about blood and the space under the sink is very small and even though he’s flexible, he’s stiff and sore and his legs feel like pins and needles, and the last time Daddy gave him milk he got broken glass pushed into his face. He can’t keep from crying.

He doesn’t raise his head, ashamed, but he doesn’t need to in order to know that Rumlow and Rollins are looking at each other. There’s a big stretch of quiet before Rollins kneels down in front of the cabinets, reaching out very slowly and stroking a hand down his hair.

“Hey Soldier,” Rollins says. His voice is soft. “What’s wrong?” 

A sniffle and a shake of the head. He’s not allowed to say. 

“Come on,” Rollins prompts. Rumlow begins to say something, but Rollins goes on. “Whatever’s going on, we can fix it.” 

He shakes his head again. Rules are rules. When he rubs at his eyes, big dark streaks of makeup come off on his hand. 

Rollins is still petting his hair and even though he shouldn’t, he leans into the touch. “You know that you have to report problems, right? The Secretary won’t be happy if he hears you weren’t following orders. You don’t want to be punished, do you?” 

No, he doesn’t. But he’ll be punished if he tells. But he’ll be punished if he doesn’t. Either will be disappointing Daddy and he’s so tired and his tummy hurts and maybe the grown-ups can fix things. “’M not supposed to be here.” He’s whining. He really can’t help it. 

“Yes, you are,” Rollins says. “We aren’t being extracted until tomorrow. You’re right where you’re supposed to be, Soldier.” 

“Uh-uh.” He looks at his boots; one of them is untied. He knows how to tie it, but he also knows that children his age cannot tie shoelaces without help, so he can’t fix it. “’M not the Soldier.”

“What?” 

It takes a long time to explain. He doesn’t know the words to describe his relationship with his daddy, and the grown-ups don’t really understand at first. Maybe if they had any children, it wouldn’t be so confusing. They don’t say much. They look kind of sick and a few times Rumlow makes a noise like he might throw up, but they let him speak. At some point Rollins gets him out of the cabinet and wipes at his face with a dishcloth, and then he’s given apple juice. He’s not sure how long it takes, only that his stomach is still in knots when he’s done and they’re quiet except the commander keeps saying “Jesus _Christ_ ” under his breath. He waits to be punished. 

“Okay,” Rollins reaches out as if to pet his hair again but then stops, looking pale. “So how can we bring the Soldier back?” 

“I dunno.” He hugs his arms around his knees, hair in front of his eyes. He tries not to look at either of them and especially not at Rumlow, remembering the punishment last time he talked to the commander. “It’s never happened before.” 

“Give me a second,” Rumlow says. He walks out of the room and returns, much longer than a second later, carrying the asset’s rifle. “Here, hold onto this. That oughta make you feel more like yourse—”

He does not hold onto it, even though that’s an order. He goes from huddled on the floor to hiding behind Rollins before he even realizes he’s moved. Children can’t play with guns and anyway, that gun _hurts_ people. He thinks of the lady on the ground and the blood on her rabbit’s foot and he’s tearing up all over again. 

Rollins is shushing him, hugging him, and even though he is sure Daddy wouldn’t like it, he can’t help but hug back. “You can’t give guns to little kids,” Rollins says. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

“He’s not a fucking kid.” 

“Language.” 

“He’s like a hundred years old!” 

Their voices are rising and he whimpers, clinging tighter and burying his face against Rollins’s shoulder. It might get makeup on the agent’s clothes and that’s bad, but he can’t help it. Both grown-ups sigh and Rollins is petting his hair again. “It’s all right, Sold—kid. You don’t have to hold the gun if you don’t want to. Look, you’re upset. How about you take a bath and we’ll figure out a way to help while you’re in there, okay?” 

He sniffles and nods but this is the first hug he’s had in a very long time and he can’t make himself let go. Another sigh and Rollins is untangling himself but instead of stepping away, Rollins takes hold of his hips and is lifting until his feet aren’t touching the floor. 

He squeaks. Daddy hasn’t been able to pick him up for years now. He’s still clinging to Rollins’s shoulders and he shifts his legs without thinking, wrapping them around the agent’s hips. Rollins goes stiff like last night at the church, but then he starts walking. The man is big and solid and it’s really nice to be carried. 

The commander is following after them. He tries not to look at him. 

Rollins starts the water and leaves him in the bathroom. It’s hard to get his holsters, belt, and boots off on his own, but he doesn’t mind being left alone. He knows what happens in bathrooms and Daddy really wouldn’t be happy if he were sharing that with other grown-ups. Except they’re taking care of him now, so maybe he needs to be a good boy for them too. Good boys don’t spy, but as he settles into the water he can’t help but hear their voices from the hall. 

“— _not_ what I signed on for, did you know?” 

“Christ, no. _Fuck_ no. I mean, the mission in Slovenia—he called me—I thought it was just _shell shock,_ I didn’t—”

He sinks down until his head is under the water and he can’t understand their words. Baths are better when they have bubbles. They’re still talking when he comes back up to breathe. 

“—if Pierce knows we know, our lives aren’t worth shit.” 

“We can’t _order_ him back to normal, that won’t work. All the threats last night didn’t do a damn thing. For all we know, he has to be wiped to fix it.” 

“We have to do _something_.”

“Maybe we just try keeping him calm? He’s a mess, he might come out of it on his own if he relaxes.” 

“And if he doesn’t?” 

He has his boots on, untied, and is struggling with his belt when there’s a knock on the door. “Hey, buddy,” Rollins says. “Mind if I come in?” 

“…’Kay.” He lets go of the belt buckle. Depending on what Rollins wants him to do, his pants might have to come back off anyway. And Rollins is looking at the belt when he opens the door. 

“Need help?” Rollins bends down, reaching out, and before the man can touch him, he unzips his pants. It’s rude to waste a grown-up’s time. Rollins’s hand had been just barely on his belt buckle, but now the agent pulls away. “What are you doing?” Rollins asks. He looks pale again. 

“You don’t wanna play?” Maybe Rollins doesn’t want to touch him; maybe _Rollins_ wants to be touched. But why did he reach out, then? When Daddy wants to be touched, he opens his own pants or guides his boy to them. 

“Not like that.” Rollins’s voice is rough and his face is white, hands closing the zipper and fastening the belt buckle before grabbing tight onto his shoulders. “Not like _that_. Here, you can watch cartoons or—or—whatever you want, just—let’s go.” 

Then Rollins has his hand and is guiding him out of the bathroom. It doesn’t make any sense—does Rollins want him to be ungrateful and rude?—but then, the agent doesn’t have any children of his own. Maybe he doesn’t understand how to be a parent. Or maybe those things are just for Daddy, or for the highest-ranking adult.

Rumlow, the highest-ranking adult, is in the hallway. He does not look happy but as they approach him, Rollins clears his throat and Rumlow stands straighter, smiling. It’s somehow scarier than the yelling from last night. “Hey, kiddo, how are you fe—”

He doesn’t plan to hide behind Rollins again; it just happens. It’s rude and bad and if he tried that with Daddy, he’d be hit with a belt. But the last time he talked to Rumlow, Daddy made him sit in the chair for forever. And that was for _talking._ If Daddy hears that he played their games with the commander, Daddy might decide to stop loving him for good. 

Rollins laughs, which makes him go tense all over. “Not so good with kids, huh?” 

“I am _great_ with kids.” 

“Apparently not this one.” Rollins is trying to push him forward but his feet won’t move, so then he’s being picked up again. He likes being picked up. He thinks he would not mind being held all day, but he’s probably too heavy for that. And then they’re moving and once they’re in the living room, Rollins puts him on the couch in front of the TV. “Here, we’ll find you something.” 

The something they find is a show called _Sesame Street_ with a lot of brightly colored puppets. He thinks it’s a show for babies—he _knows_ about the letter R and the number nine already—but it’s nice. Nobody gets shot on _Sesame Street._ And there’s a big yellow bird who’s six, a whole year older than him, so maybe it’s not a baby show after all. He hadn’t realized there was TV just for kids. Whenever he’s with Daddy it’s usually nighttime and everything that’s on is for grown-ups, so anything they watch has to be on tape. 

They don’t watch a lot of TV, though. They’re usually doing other things. 

Rollins is quiet beside him, not counting or singing along with the characters. He laughs a little at Oscar the Grouch, but that’s it. Probably he’s busy thinking of important adult stuff. 

After _Sesame Street_ there’s an even better show called _Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood._ For that one, he gets up off the couch to sit closer to the screen. Mr. Rogers has a voice that sounds like being tucked into bed feels _and_ in the Land of Make Believe there’s a little tiger who’s afraid of everything too, and no one thinks that’s bad. 

When that show’s over, Rollins asks how he’s feeling. 

“Fine.” 

Rollins doesn’t ask anything else, just sighs. He asks again after _Reading Rainbow_ , and then after _Arthur_ , and then after _Curious George._ The answer is always the same. 

Eventually, there aren’t any more shows for kids and the news starts up. He’s seen the news before; sometimes Daddy has it on while he’s coloring or playing trains or stuffed animals. Sometimes there’s even stuff about his missions on the news and Daddy will play with his hair and tell him how perfect he is. But he doesn’t want to hear or think about the last mission anymore and he’s glad when Rollins shuts the TV off. 

“You okay, kid?” 

He nods, toying with the loose ends of his shoelaces. 

“You want to play in the snow?” 

He glances out the window. There’s a lot of snow. He doesn’t have a coat because the asset is used to the cold. He thinks for a second that all the snow might bring the asset back out, but the more he thinks about it, it might actually make the asset sleep more. Maybe for forever, judging by his luck. 

“Oh, the neighbors,” Rollins says, smacking a hand against his forehead. “Never mind. Just sit tight, I’ll find something for you to do, okay?” 

A nod. Rollins leaves the room. The commander must be nearby because it isn’t long before he can hear the grown-ups talking in hushed voices. He doesn’t listen. It would be rude and anyway, he’s busy piling all the pillows from the couch around himself. If cold makes the asset tired, maybe heat will wake him up. 

“Making a fort?” Rollins asks when he comes back. 

A shrug. He isn’t, but the adults are really worried about bringing back the Soldier, so saying this was a failed try to do that would just make them upset. 

“Here.” There’s a stack of paper in the agent’s hand, and he sets it on the floor along with an old box of crayons. “I thought you might want to color.” 

There are eight crayons in the box: the black one is worn to almost nothing, the orange is broken, and most of the labels are off. At home he has a box of over a hundred crayons and it comes with a sharpener, and he frowns a little. But complaining is bad and maybe that’s all there is and he guesses he can still draw with these even if they’re not nearly as good. 

He mostly only ever colors in coloring books because Daddy doesn’t like the pictures he makes when he makes his own, but these pages are blank. He tries to draw nice things, like houses and big yellow birds and bunny rabbits. Only he picks up a red crayon to color the bunny’s nose—they don’t have _pink_ , who makes a box of crayons without pink?—and then he looks down and he’s drawn a bunch of blood coming out of the rabbit’s head. 

Rollins won’t like that. But Rollins hasn’t asked what he’s drawing yet, hasn’t even played with his hair since before he took a bath. It’s pretty obvious that Rollins doesn’t know how to be a daddy. 

He decides to draw some more pictures to explain how taking care of a little boy works. 

He’s on the fifth such drawing when Rumlow knocks on the door frame and leans in. “Hey, buddy. Can you come here for a minute, help me out with something?” 

Putting the crayon down, he looks at Rollins, but Rollins only nods and tells him to go be friendly. So he stacks up the pictures and stands, then shuffles over to Rollins to give the agent the pictures before he follows the commander. He might be dragging his feet a little but his shoelaces are untied so that’s okay. He could try to tie them but that would take a while and Rumlow might want his shoes off anyway. He leaves the pictures with Rollins and lets Rumlow guide him into the kitchen. 

“I’m making dinner,” the commander says. “You’re hungry, right?” 

There’s an ache in his tummy that could be hunger. It probably isn’t, but he nods. 

“Sure you are.” Rumlow’s voice is bright. “You’ve had a long couple of days. You like pancakes, kiddo? Those won’t make you sick, will they?” 

He’s not sure what a pancake _is_ ; the only foods he ever has are the things Daddy makes and if Daddy made pancakes, the doctors took the memory away. “Dunno.” 

From the other room, there’s a noise like Rollins is throwing up. 

Hopefully not on the drawings, he worked hard on those. 

“I think you’ll be okay,” Rumlow says. “We’ll just skip the syrup. And I’ll put a special secret ingredient in ‘em just for you if you think you can handle it, okay?” 

“Love?” Once Daddy made him peanut butter and jelly, he remembers, and he said love was the special ingredient in that. He said it was in everything that he made. 

The commander must cook differently, though, because he doesn’t look pleased even though his voice is still happy. “Nope. Chocolate chips.” Rumlow holds out a bag. “Wanna try one?” 

His eyes get big. He had chocolate chips once, in a cookie. It was really good. And it’s still really good. He’s smiling for the first time since he woke up. 

“Like it?” Rumlow asks, grinning at the nod he gets in reply. “Good. You wanna help stir?” 

Rollins comes in, accusing Rumlow of “buying affection with sugar” and Rumlow answers by throwing flour at the agent. Then they both tell him to sit down but he decides walking through flour with his shoelaces dragging in it would make a mess and be bad, so the commander ties his shoes for him and Rollins carries him to a chair after. 

“You just get the one, buddy,” Rumlow says when he brings the plates to the table. “But I made it special, so it’s almost like having two.” 

The pancake is speckled with chocolate chips and it isn’t round. It’s one big circle with two littler circles connected near the top, not quite touching each other. He doesn’t get it. Maybe it’s an asset thing? 

“Mickey Mouse,” Rumlow says, watching him. “You like Mickey, don’t you, kid?” 

“Uh.” He still doesn’t understand, but in his head he sees a movie theater, a cartoon of a little mouse leading a band. But Daddy’s never taken him to the movies, has he? “Uh-huh.” 

The pancake is really, really good and he wonders if Daddy knows how to make them. It’s so good that even an hour later, when he’s curled up on the couch with a tummy ache, he doesn’t mind so much. 

The commander comes in with a piece of paper in his hands. “Mind if I sit down?” 

“Uh-uh.” It’s weird that Rumlow asked. Daddy never does. He crawls onto the man’s lap without being told because he’s getting sleepy and his stomach hurts and Rumlow probably doesn’t want to be kept waiting anyway. Only then he sees what’s on the paper the commander’s holding. 

It’s the picture of the bloody bunny. 

He waits to be punished. 

But Rumlow’s hand is on his shirt, stroking up and down his tummy like Rumlow knows he doesn’t feel good. And maybe Rumlow does know; he was huddled up on himself when the man came in. He isn’t punched and Rumlow’s hand doesn’t go any lower or higher. “Is this what you’re upset about?” Rumlow asks. “What you saw at the church?” 

“I hurt that lady,” he says. His eyes are hot and he tilts his head back so tears can’t fall out. He shouldn’t be complaining about something his daddy wanted done, but he wasn’t supposed to _be_ there. And good boys don’t hurt anybody. And it was really scary and really sad and he can’t stop seeing it. 

“Hey.” Rumlow hugs him tight against his chest. “Shh, listen. It’s—look, kid, nobody likes it when people get hurt. And when HYDRA’s done, we’ll have a world where nobody ever gets hurt again, ‘cause we’re there to take care of them. And you, buddy, you’ll have helped more than anybody else to make that happen, okay? But until then, sometimes a few people have to get hurt or a lot more people will have something bad happen to them. And nobody likes that, but that’s how it has to be. Yeah, you hurt a lady, but you helped hundreds of people.” 

“But I can’t stop seeing it.” He’s whining and there are tears hot on his face, but even though he’s been so bad, Rumlow doesn’t hit him. The commander only holds tighter. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I know it’s hard, but tomorrow you’re going home, remember? They’ll fix it so you won’t have to see it anymore. You won’t even remember. It’s gonna be okay.” 

They’re both quiet then, and the commander keeps hugging even after the sniffling stops. For the first time since last night at the church, there’s an end in sight. Things can be okay. He doesn’t have to remember. 

But he does have to thank Rumlow for pointing that out. 

He can’t turn around or reach the commander’s zipper with the way he’s being held. So instead, he moves his hips, rubbing back and forth on Rumlow’s lap. Daddy has him do that sometimes, if they’re watching a movie or coloring or just because. Daddy says he’s very good at it. 

“Hey!” Rumlow’s voice is sharp and he flinches, going still even before the commander’s hands can clamp down on his hips to hold him in place. “Hey, _hey_ , don’t do that. Don’t do that, all right?” 

“But I owe you.” 

“You don’t owe me shit, kid.” Rumlow’s hands are shaking. “Look, you’re not—I won’t—I just want you to feel better, okay? Don’t worry about doing—about _that_.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“I know.” 

“I miss Daddy.” 

“I know.” 

It doesn’t make any sense at all. He twists and squirms in the commander’s grasp until they’re facing each other, but even then it doesn’t look like Rumlow is teasing or laughing at him. It’s like he really doesn’t want to play with him. 

Rumlow’s stroking his tummy again, but now it doesn’t ache. The man’s other hand is petting at his hair and he melts, sinking forward until his head is resting on Rumlow’s shoulder. His own hands move, running along the seams of the commander’s tactical vest, tracing the lines. 

They sit for a long time like that, and Rumlow doesn’t try to take off either of their pants and doesn’t try to guide his head down into the man’s lap. It’s scary. But it’s also nice. With his head on Rumlow’s shoulder, he can hear Rumlow’s heartbeat. It makes it hard to keep his eyes open, and his hands keep going limp for a second or two before he moves them again. 

“Looks like you need to get some sleep,” Rumlow mutters, and he knows what that means but maybe…maybe with Rumlow it doesn’t mean that. 

It’s still too dangerous to sleep, though. He might have a nightmare or an accident or both. And maybe if he stays awake long enough, the asset will have to come back out. The asset probably stays up later than he does. “Don’t wanna,” he tries to say, but all he manages is “don’t wa—” before he’s yawning. 

“Don’t think you’ve got much of a choice, kiddo.” 

He can’t really argue with that and he’s tired and Rumlow’s hand is rubbing up and down his back. His eyes keep closing even though he doesn’t mean them to and maybe, cuddled up against the commander, maybe he won’t have nightmares. He gives a little nod before he goes limp, and he doesn’t think before mumbling, “I wish you were my daddy.” 

Then he _does_ think and he bolts upright, eyes open and wide awake. 

Rumlow is trying to steady him but he jerks away again, so hard and fast that he falls onto the floor. It doesn’t hurt; he can’t feel anything except his heart hammering and his breathing all fast and ragged. He is crying and that’s so very bad but he can’t stop. “I d-d-didn’t mean it p-p-please don’t tell on me I d-didn’t mean it I d-d-d-didn’t I l-love Daddy I d-don’t—”

“Hey—” Rumlow is reaching out but then he stops before they touch. “Kid, it’s okay. I won’t tell Pierce—I won’t tell your daddy, okay? Calm down.” 

He tries to calm down. It doesn’t take. 

“ _Relax_ , kid. You’re not in any trouble. Here, let’s just get you to bed, all right? It’ll help. You’ll feel better if you get some sleep.” 

He’s too busy crying to get any sleep. Rumlow has to get Rollins to carry him to the house’s bedroom, and even then he shies away from the bed. There are blankets and a pillow on the floor, probably from where Rumlow or Rollins slept the night before. “I w-w-wanna sleep there.” 

“You sure?” Rollins asks, but he nods hard and they don’t argue. 

They lay him down and wrap blankets around him and Rollins tells him a story he thinks he hasn’t heard before about three little pigs. Rollins is good at stories. Rumlow tries to go sleep on the couch but he grabs the commander’s hand and asks him to stay. 

“Kid, I’ll just be in the other room and Jack’s right here—”

“Please?” 

Rumlow does leave, but it’s just to get more blankets. When the commander comes back, he grabs onto his hand—with the right hand, the left one might hurt Rumlow if he has bad dreams—and closes his eyes, waiting to fall asleep. 

“Hey kiddo,” Rumlow whispers. “If—if you’re still you tomorrow, when we go back to the base, do you think you could pretend to be the Soldier? If we told you what to say?” 

He bites his lip. “But they’ll have a lot of questions. About why I sh-shot wrong.” 

“You can say your arm malfunctioned. Then they’d just look at it.” Rumlow sounds very sure. 

His stomach is back in knots. “I can’t lie to Daddy.” 

“Trust me, buddy. Your daddy would be a lot happier if he thought your arm broke than he would if he knew we met you. We’d all be in trouble then. None of us would be if your arm was messed up.” 

That’s true, but. “I can’t lie to Daddy.” 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. Then: “If you can’t be good for me, I’m going to have to tell your daddy about that bad thing you said, about wanting me to be your daddy. Okay?” 

His breath catches. His eyes tear up and blur what little he could make out in the dark. “I…I’ll be good.” 

“Thanks, kiddo.” 

It feels like it takes forever to sleep after that. 

*

The asset wakes up with dry blankets and his hand still entwined with Rumlow’s. There’s a little flush of heat to his face, but it doesn’t matter what these men think. They are not his master. Anyway, they are ultimately replaceable and he is not. 

Rumlow wakes and smiles. “Hey, buddy. How’re you feeling?” 

Pulling his hand free, the asset only says, “Shouldn’t be exposed to Latin. In future missions.” 

The relief in Rumlow’s eyes is almost tangible as he nods. 

When they return to base, the asset says his arm malfunctioned. The technicians study it for two hours before clearing him. Rollins and Rumlow are long gone by that point, but when Pierce arrives to take the asset off and “debrief” him privately, he tells himself he would not have looked back over his shoulder for them even if they were around. He is Daddy’s. Daddy is sometimes harsh but never confusing. That’s better than nice but strange, surely. It’s safer. 

And he won’t remember pancakes to miss them anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Mrs. Wilson's Cook Book_ , which provides the title and opening quote, is archived in full [here.](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/17438/17438-h/17438-h.htm)
> 
> The church that the Soldier and the agents were in at the start was an extraordinary form Catholic church, which essentially means that the mass is still performed in Latin. Novus ordo, or new order, is a mass performed in the vernacular. The Latin phrase that set the Soldier off is a part of Deuteronomy Chapter 11 Verse 1: Therefore thou shalt love the Lord thy God, and keep his charge, and his statutes, his ordinances, and his commandments, always.
> 
> Suffocating within a refrigerator wasn't an uncommon way for children to die before the passage of the Refrigerator Safety Act in the United States in 1956. Now refrigerator doors are designed so that they can be easily opened from within.
> 
> The reaction of Rumlow and Rollins to finding the Soldier under the sink is in reference to a [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xKaXfsfgYg) from the 1983 film _A Christmas Story._
> 
> All of the shows that Rollins and the Soldier watch were programs airing on PBS in 2006, when this story is set, but the order is fictitious as I couldn't find any listing of their schedule.
> 
> The Mickey Mouse cartoon that the Soldier was remembering is the 1935 short [_The Band Concert._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLbmWE-0Rmk)


End file.
